


They Never Talked About It

by firstiwasliketheniwaslike



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Love, M/M, Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstiwasliketheniwaslike/pseuds/firstiwasliketheniwaslike
Summary: This is how I think, if left to their own devices, John and Sherlock would develop their relationship. There wouldn't be any major confessions or one big event that pushed them over the edge. I don't think they would ever even talk about it. I think they would just slowly start doing all the things that romantic couples do because it would feel natural to them. Hope you enjoy!"They never talked about the kisses either. Eventually they became as common place as the touches."





	1. Chapter 1

It began with a hand on the small of his back.

John stood at the counter making his tea. Sherlock came up behind him, reaching for a mug in the cupboard above John’s head, and gently placed a hand on the small of his back. A gesture saying, “It’s me. Don’t worry. I’ll be done in a moment.” True to that statement, as quickly as his hand appeared it was gone and so was the tall lanky detective.

It happened again the next morning. And once again the following afternoon. 

John was acutely aware of these touches. Each one electrifying his skin. They seemed deliberate, but subconscious. Sherlock clearly meant to touch him, but John was not sure how much thought he put into them. They were simple reassuring touches. I’m here, said a hand on his shoulder as John read in his chair. Pardon me, said a soft bump of the hip as Sherlock maneuvered around John in the kitchen, hands full of glass beakers. I understand, said a soft squeeze to his shoulder. 

Sherlock had always had boundary issues, leaning in close over John’s shoulders as he worked, read, or typed. He had no problem manhandling John in the name of a case, grabbing his hand, his head, his arm to push or pull John where he needed him to be. But these new unnecessary touches? These statement touches? They were new. 

While John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was intentional with his touches, he was intentional in his decision to return them. Unsure what the new touching rules were, or if there even were any, John decided to start small. A hand on the shoulder whenever he left the flat. Sherlock didn’t even realize John was leaving half the time anyway so he figured this would be a safe place to test the waters. 

“I’m headed to Tesco. Do you need anything?” John asked, gently placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“No.” Sherlock said, not unkindly. John slid his hand back and forth on Sherlock’s shoulder once, twice, before withdrawing and heading out the door. 

They never talked about the touches. Gradually, they became everyday occurrences, almost a routine. John would make tea and toast for them in the morning. Sherlock would glide around him, hand on the small of John’s back whenever he was close enough to reach. They took turns brushing their teeth in the bathroom. Sherlock would guide John out of the way with a soft hand and a push on his hip. Sherlock would then settle into an experiment at the kitchen table or research at his desk. John would come say goodbye before he left for work, running his hand gently, but firmly over Sherlock’s shoulder and upper back. 

“See you tonight,” he would say.

“Do you want to grab dinner on your way home?” Sherlock would ask, more often than not.

John would chuckle, squeezing his shoulder.

“Sure.”

When he returned in the evening, takeaway bags in hand, Sherlock would still be home, more often than not, engrossed in an experiment, immersed in his computer screen or deep in his mind palace. John would set the takeaway on the table, walk to his roommate and gently rub his shoulder.

“Dinner,” John would say.

When Sherlock deigned to acknowledge John’s presence, which he did more often than not, he would place his hand on top of John’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. They would eat together, sometimes watching crap telly, sometimes just chatting. On wild nights they would be called away on a case. 

Before bed, John, who always went to bed first, would gently lay a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Goodnight.” John would say.

“Goodnight.” Sherlock would reply.

This routine became so common place that John stopped thinking about the touches each time they happened. It just became another source of comfort in his life like a warm jumper or chair. Always there. Always welcome. He wouldn’t really think about it until Sherlock had a particularly grueling case that had him in and out of the flat or even completely gone for days on end. He missed the feel of Sherlock’s hand on his or the other man’s warm body beneath his fingers. He craved the closeness in Sherlock’s absence.

It was no wonder then that one evening after a long case, John, craving that touch, walked over to say goodnight to Sherlock, put his hand on his shoulder, leaned in and placed a kiss on the crown of his head. It was a quick kiss, but long enough for Sherlock to feel the full pressure of John’s lips and long enough for John to feel the softness of Sherlock’s curls on his cheeks. Sherlock didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. He just reached his hand up to lay on John’s.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

That is how the kissing started. Now every night John would kiss Sherlock on the head before going to bed. Short, soft kisses that could easily be written off as platonic, like a kiss a father might give a son. Affectionate and sweet. Sherlock began staying home in the evenings more often. 

Eventually, the head kisses became more than just goodnight occurrences. They became the standard goodbye. As John darted out of the flat for work he would pause briefly and lay a quick kiss to Sherlock’s curls. They never talked about the kisses either. Eventually they became as common place as the touches. 

Eventually, Sherlock began participating more actively. He would reward John with a quick firm kiss to the forehead if he was particularly helpful during a case or as a thank you without saying thank you for grabbing dinner or doing the shopping. 

So it was bound to happen eventually. 

One morning Sherlock was particularly engrossed in some petri dish under his microscope. 

“Can you not do that at the breakfast table, Sherlock? I mean really! It’s unsanitary.” John chided him as he dumped his tea cup and toast plate in the sink before walking over to the other man to lay the customary goodbye kiss to his head. Sherlock, who normally ignores any complaining John directs at him, chose this moment to finally respond. As John leaned down, lips pursed, Sherlock turned his head up to speak.

It wasn’t a kiss per say. Their lips met, but it was more of a swipe, a bump, as Sherlock pursed his lips to speak. Completely unintentional, it caught both men off guard.  
John stood up stock straight and wide eyed. Sherlock froze in his seat, staring up at John.

“Sorry,” John spoke first, “I was just…um, yeah. I’m just gonna head out to work.” John gestured awkwardly toward the door. 

Sherlock stared for a moment longer, before snapping back to himself and nodding his head.

“Yeah, sure. Um, have a good day.”

John dashed out of the door. When he returned home that evening things were still a bit awkward. They still touched, but they were brisker, shorter touches. At bed time John came up to Sherlock and rested his hand on the other man’s shoulder. At this point he would normally bend down and give him a goodnight kiss to his head. But this night he just stood clumsily for a moment before patting Sherlock’s shoulder in a perfunctory manner. 

“Goodnight,” John said pulling his hand back, but not moving away.

Sherlock stood from his seat at the desk. Looking down at John he gently rested his hands on either side of John’s face and slowly leaned down, placing a soft kiss on John’s lips. 

“Goodnight, John.”

John stared up at Sherlock, his expression unreadable. Slowly he placed a hand over one of the hands still gently resting on his face. He gave Sherlock a soft smile.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

They didn’t talk about kisses on the lips. This practice didn’t catch on as quickly as the others had. It was several weeks before the next incident. 

They were huddled on the couch watching a Doctor Who marathon. They had their feet kicked up on the coffee table. Sherlock was explaining the logical fallacies of the representation of time travel in the show off and on. John was pleasantly ignoring him.

After one particularly stinging criticism, John smoothly took Sherlock’s hand in his and brought it to his lips. He placed a sweet kiss on the back of the hand before lacing their fingers together and settling their hands on the couch between them.

“You’re a bit of a shite sometimes. You know that?” John said teasingly.

“Yes, but you wouldn’t have me any other way,” Sherlock countered with a clever grin.

John looked up at him with a smile, reaching his free hand across to caress those incredible cheekbones with his thumb. It wasn’t clear who moved first. Truth be told they probably leaned in at the exact same time. But a moment later their lips were pressed together in a chased, sweet kiss, John’s hand still cupping Sherlock’s face.

Their lips separated and then met again and again in light, sucking kisses for the briefest of moments before they pulled apart and settled down closer together on the couch, bodies touching from shoulder to knee, hands still intertwined, now resting on their laps.

Nothing changed for them outside the flat. They did not touch or kiss in front of other people. Even though they had never discussed this new aspect of their friendship, neither ever tried to show affection in public. It didn’t feel right to either of them. What they shared they shared for them and them alone.

Late one evening after a particularly exciting chase across London, culminating in Sherlock handing a criminal over to the Met with all of his glorious deductions on full display, they burst through the door of 221B breathless and giddy. They practically jogged up to the flat, Sherlock throwing his jacket and scarf on the ground. 

“That was brilliant,” John said, being more sensible and hanging his jacket up.

“They always slip up. Always. You just have to pay attention and be ready to pounce when they do.” 

Sherlock was pacing the room, still running high on the adrenaline. 

“How about a drink to celebrate,” John suggested.

Before long they stood in the kitchen each with two fingers of whisky in a glass.

“To London’s seedy underbelly,” John held up his glass in toast.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied. 

They clinked their glasses together then took a long sip, the liquid warmth doing nothing to calm their bodies. 

“I don’t think I am going to be able to sleep any time soon,” John confessed. “Would you want to watch some crap telly?”

Sherlock shifted anxiously on his feet and finished the rest of his whiskey before placing the glass on the counter behind John. 

“No,” he said matter-of-factly before crowding bodily into John, backing him up into the counter. 

“Sherlock—” John was cut off by Sherlock’s plump, full lips covering his. Arms wrapped around John’s waist. He managed to put his glass on the counter before threading his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and returning the kiss with enthusiastic commitment.

This kiss was not like the others they had shared. Not the ones on the lips and definitely not the ones on the head. While affection ran through all of them, this one had a strong current of desire. They were on edge, energy still running high. Their hands began traveling across the other’s body. John darted his tongue out to taste Sherlock’s lower lip, sucking it between his own lips briefly. 

Sherlock moaned at the feeling, grabbing at John’s jumper pulling him closer. They kissed like that for what seemed like hours. Just standing in the kitchen, running hands down chests, clutching at backs, cupping faces, and running fingers through hair. 

When the fervor of lips and hands finally subsided, John planted one more sweet kiss on Sherlock’s lips before bidding him goodnight and heading up to his own room. If he pulled his cock out immediately upon shutting his bedroom door and wanked himself to completion without ever taking his clothes off, well Sherlock didn’t need to know.


	2. Chapter 2

They definitely didn’t talk about the snogging. Sherlock was too embarrassed to admit how much he enjoyed it. He fancied himself above such unnecessary desires. It was all just transport anyway. He could justify the touches, the brief kisses. Goodnight. Hello. Excuse me. Thank you. These were simply a form of communication with John. Plus, John had always wanted him to be nicer, more polite. He figured after all he put John through, with the fall, the disappearing for two years and then showing up unannounced and very much alive, he owed it to him. Through it all John has stuck by him, always believed in him.

The snogging was harder to justify along these lines, though. In the rare moments when Sherlock was honest with himself he knew that his participation in the kissing and groping sessions were more for his pleasure than John’s, though John did seem to thoroughly enjoy them.

This new arrangement was also much different. Whereas the touches and kisses seamlessly integrated themselves into everyday practices, these moments, where they fell into each other’s arms, each other’s lips, didn’t happen at specific times. They didn’t happen with some greater purpose. They happened when the desire to be close to the other became overwhelming. They happened when Sherlock felt an overwhelming sense of need that could only be satisfied by the hands, the lips, the body of John Watson.

Sometimes it happened in the morning. John would be nearly ready to head out the door. He would lean down to give Sherlock the customary goodbye kiss. As soon as their lips touched, that yearning, that urgent need for the other roiled deep in their stomachs. Sherlock would stand, wrapping his arms around John and who would inevitably be late for work.

Sometimes it would happen after a case. One or both of them exhausted, but exhilarated. They would sit on the couch or lean against a door or wall and just devour each other. Desperate kisses placed on lips, cheeks, and necks.

Sometimes it would happen at the most mundane of times, when they were watching telly or sat in their chairs reading. One would look over at the other, an unspoken desire communicated and they would find themselves in each other’s arms.

Sherlock loved the feeling of John’s lips on his, the way he licked and nipped at them. He loved the taste of John. He loved the way his lips and tongue tasted of tea. The soft salty tang of the skin just underneath his ear. The deep full flavor of the skin at the base of his neck.

That was as far as it went. Kisses from the neck up. Hands from the waist up, always over clothes. The rules never spoken, but silently agreed upon.

This went on for months until it had been just over a year since that first day Sherlock decided to lay a hand on the small of John’s back. At the time he had been nervous to make such a bold move. He had wanted to give something extra, something special to John for being the kind, brave man that he was, but Sherlock wasn’t sure that John would be receptive. His nerves in that moment seemed almost silly compared to the current situation he found himself in: sitting on the couch with a lap full of army doctor, an erection very clearly digging into his own matching erection.

It had started innocently enough, the two of them on the couch kissing and running hands down the other’s chest and back. Then suddenly he felt this overwhelming need to get John closer, as close as he could get him. He gripped John by the hips and guided him up onto his lap. John didn’t hesitate and, seemingly driven by a similar desire for closeness, swung his leg over the other man and settled bodily into his lap.

Their lips never parted, but as soon as John settled into his lap and they pressed their bodies firmly together something became unavoidably apparent. Each man was not only sporting an aching erection, but those erections were pressed firmly into one another. Sherlock was no stranger to a John-Watson-caused hard on. They were a common occurrence while they were snogging or in the shower when Sherlock would touch himself or late at night in bed as he rutted against his mattress. But he had never made John aware of these incidents and certainly never presented his erections to John.

Logically, it made sense that John would also experience similar arousal, but that did not stop Sherlock from having his breath stolen away at the surprise of coming in direct contact with that arousal. The two men broke their kiss, erections still firmly pressed together. John stared down at Sherlock, eyes wide, mirroring Sherlock’s surprise. Sherlock reached a hand up to brush his knuckles across John’s cheek. John closed his eyes, pressing into the touch, then slowly, firmly rolled his hips.

Sherlock’s head dropped back and the hand caressing John’s face grabbed desperately at the back of the other man’s neck, trying to steady himself. John rocked again, a deep rumbling moan escaping his lips. Sherlock began rapid construction on a new wing in his mind palace. He needed to document and store every sound like that to ever escape John Watson’s lips.

The two men began rocking together. John would push down onto Sherlock, while Sherlock would thrust up into him. In short order both men were wild out of their minds with desire, salacious moans breaking through desperate kisses.

Sherlock felt as though he was going to burst from within. Pressure building up deep inside, but the rough texture of his trousers, the constriction of the tight space kept him on edge, never allowing him to completely come apart.

John must have either felt the same way or could tell how Sherlock himself was feeling because, before Sherlock realized what was happening, John had scooted back slightly on Sherlock’s lap and his hands were working at his trouser buttons. Once John had his buttons undone and his pants exposed he reached for Sherlock’s, pausing briefly to give him a questioning look.

 _Is this okay? Do you want this?_ His eyes said. Sherlock nodded frantically.

John proceeded to deftly undo the buttons of Sherlock’s trousers, pulling them open and shifting them down as much as he could, given their positions. Then slowly and with the greatest of care, John reached into Sherlock’s pants and guided his hard, aching cock out into the open.

Sherlock could not take his eyes off of John’s hands, off of what his mad, amazing roommate was currently doing. He sucked in a sharp breath when he felt John’s hand make contact with his prick. He moaned unabashedly and without a second thought dove his hand into John’s pants, wanting to feel and see in the same way John was.

More filthy sounds spilled from John’s mouth as Sherlock caressed his now exposed erection. The two sat together staring down at their hands, at the scene between them, for several minutes, gently stroking the other, exploring the hardness encased in soft skin, shivering with each stroke.

At some point, Sherlock wasn’t sure exactly when, they began kissing again, their free hands roaming across the other’s neck, shoulder, face, chest. It was frantic, but slow. Gently, but forceful. Above all it was pure bliss. Sherlock could feel his climax building, his strokes on John’s cock faltering.

John pulled back from the kisses and pushed Sherlock’s hand out of the way. He pushed their erections together wrapping his hand around both, stroking them in unison. Sherlock had been watching with rapt attention, but at the first firm stroke his eyes slammed shut. John’s other hand gripped firmly at the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Sherlock,” he said breathlessly. “Open your eyes Sherlock. Look at me.”

Slowly, with extreme effort, Sherlock opened his eyes to find John’s face wrecked with pleasure, staring imploringly at him. They locked eyes as John sped up his strokes.

“John.” The name came out of Sherlock as a desperate plea.

“I’ve got you,” John reassured. Neither could look away from the other.

Sherlock was full to bursting with pleasure, desire, with love. He knew now, from this moment on, there was no going back. He could never live without John Watson. He could no longer go on without having John Watson, body, mind, and soul. As the realization washed over him his climax him like a tidal wave.

“John!” He shouted and desperately grabbed at John’s shoulders.

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes. That’s it.” John cooed encouragingly.

“Oh! Oh!” Sherlock cried as he spilled over John’s hand, never once breaking eye contact. Sherlock’s pleasure appeared to be too much for John, because he came, shouting, a moment after.

The two sat there, softening cocks cradled in John’s hand, cum cooling stickily on their skin, trying to catch their breath. Sherlock leaned up and placed a soft kiss on John’s lips.

“Stay here.” John instructed, then carefully extricated himself from Sherlock’s lap and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned shortly, trousers done back up, looking more put together than Sherlock who was still sitting on the couch boneless, soft cock still hanging from his pants. John had brought a washcloth with him. Its warmth and wetness as John gently wiped him clean and tucked him back into his trousers. John threw the cloth on the ground when he was finished and collapsed next to Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pulling him close and kissing the top of his head.


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn’t sure where to go from here. The other night on the couch had been one of the best experiences of his life. In that moment, watching Sherlock come undone by his hand, he knew that he could not live without it.

He hadn’t been on an actual date for almost eight months. It was before the awkward almost-kiss he and Sherlock shared in the kitchen. She was a nice woman that he had met at a pub one night with Stamford. They went out to dinner, grabbed a few beers after and ended up at her place. The night ended with a blow job for him and John fingering her to climax. He left with a smile and a quick peck to the cheek. Neither one ever called the other.

That is how all of his relationships had been. Nice, decent sex, but ultimately underwhelming and unfulfilling. But this thing with Sherlock was something else. Now that he knew what Sherlock looked like, what he sounded like, how he felt in John’s hand has he came, John had to have more.

He wasn’t sure if Sherlock felt the same way, but figured it was a safe bet that he did, given the cuddles on the couch after and the lack of awkwardness the next morning. But John didn’t get an opportunity to find out for sure because the evening after the tryst on the couch Sherlock was called away on a case.

He had to spend a few days in Cardiff tracking down a ring of retail thieves. It would have been a two, stolen high-end purses were laughably irrelevant, but after one store’s assistant manager turned up murdered Sherlock noticed a pattern and realized that it wasn’t the purses themselves, but the raw diamonds being sewn into their linings that were the real loot. John couldn’t go because he had shifts at the clinic.

**It was an IRA affiliated gang. They were going to trade the diamonds for some new high tech American weapons. SH**

John received the text from Sherlock on the fourth evening of Sherlock’s absence. It was the first communication he had received since Sherlock left.

**Brilliant. So, are you headed home?**

The text made Sherlock smile.

**Tomorrow. I’m pretty knackered and about to head off to bed. I’ll catch the first train in the morning. SH**

John was thoroughly disappointed by that answer. It was a reasonable thing for Sherlock to spend the night, but John missed him terribly. It was almost frightening how much he missed him. It had only been a few days, but he missed everything. He missed having tea with him in the morning. He missed listening to his brilliant deductions about things John cared nothing about. He missed his warm strong hands on the small of his back, the feel of his curls on John’s cheek. He missed his lips. John could feel his prick stiffen slightly just thinking about them. Then his phone pinged again.

**What are you up to right now? SH**

_About to go have a wank_ , John thought to himself.

**In the kitchen making a cuppa.**

He wasn’t really lying, John tried to reason. A cuppa did sound good before bed so he got up from his chair and turned on the kettle. His phone pinged again.

**That sounds amazing. Could you make me one too? SH**

John chuckled to himself.

**Sure, but I’m pretty sure it will be cold by the time you got here.**

Suddenly, John heard the beeping of a phone that was not his. He spun on his heels. Standing in the archway between the living room and the kitchen was Sherlock.

John felt a clenching in his chest, an overwhelming feeling of relief and desperation all mixed together.

“I’ll take an oolong if we have it,” Sherlock said sardonically.

Instantly John was in his space wrapping arms around the tall man. Their lips crashed together. Sherlock held John close, melting into the touches, the kisses. The kisses were desperate and hectic, like they were starving men sitting down to a meal.

“I missed you,” John confessed, unwrapping Sherlock’s scarf so he could plant kisses on his neck.

“I missed you too, desperately,” Sherlock replied grabbing fists full of John’s jumper.

The feeling between them shifted from one of excited desperation to hungry, burning desire.

John shoved Sherlock’s jacket from his shoulders. Sherlock pulled John’s undershirt free from his trousers. All the while their lips barely parted, only shifting position here and there. John grabbed at Sherlock’s trousers, pulling the other man closer.

“You are a bloody brilliant mad man,” John said between kisses, unbuckling Sherlock’s belt.

“I am so proud, so impressed by every case you solve.” He roughly pulled the trouser buttons free from their eyelets. Sherlock drowning in the praise and attention.

“Don’t leave me like that again, Sherlock.” John’s voice wasn’t angry, but frantic, pleading. “I don’t think I could stand it again.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched at the sound of John’s request.

“Never,” he agrees without giving it proper thought. “I’m sorry.”

John is surprised by the apology, but couldn’t be bothered to stop kissing the man who offered it. He was on a mission after all. But before John could reach into Sherlock’s pants, Sherlock pushed him back against the counter and took a small step back. John felt a rush of cold as the space between them grew.

“Let me make it up to you.”

Suddenly, Sherlock was on his knees. With lightning speed he had John’s trousers undone and cock pulled out.

“Fuuuuc—” John’s moan cutoff by Sherlock swallowing him down.

How had this happened? Not 30 minutes ago John was sitting in his chair miserably missing Sherlock, not even knowing if he had solved the case yet. Now, not only was Sherlock home, but had John’s stiff cock in his mouth.

He would be lying if he said the thought of Sherlock’s lips wrapped around him had not crossed his mind a thousand times. Most times when it did John couldn’t help but touch himself. It was more amazing than he had ever imagined, though.

Sherlock was amazingly skilled, keeping tight wet pressure up and down his shaft, stroking what he couldn’t fit in his mouth with his hand. His tongue flicked over John’s slit on every up stroke. John ran his fingers through the soft curls in front of him, moving his hand with the bobbing of Sherlock’s head.

“Christ that feels good,” John huffed out with a moan.

Then it hit him. They were in their dirty kitchen, John pressed up against the counter, Sherlock on his knees. His back hurt, pressed against the hard laminate. Sherlock’s knees had to be killing him. This is never how he imagined this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“Stop,” he shouted louder than intended.

Sherlock startled and popped off his prick with a smacking sound, his face a mix of startled and frightened. John instantly realized his mistake.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I—uh—I’m sorry I yelled. Here.” John offered his hand to Sherlock. “Come up here.”

Sherlock still looked skeptical, as if he were waiting for a scolding. But he took the offered hand and stood up from the kitchen floor. John gently tucked himself back into his pants and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

“I was just thinking,” John began. “That maybe we should do this somewhere a bit more comfortable than the kitchen.”

Sherlock gave a soft smile and looked down at his feet. John thought for a moment that he could see a small blush cross his cheeks, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Bedroom?” Sherlock offered.

“Lead the way.”

They made their way back to Sherlock’s bedroom, pausing when they reached the bed. Sherlock leaned in and kissed John. The franticness was gone. Sherlock poured every ounce of what he was feeling into that kiss. It told John how much Sherlock had missed him too. It told John how much Sherlock wanted him, how much he needed him, in this moment and beyond.

Slowly they began peeling the clothes from each other’s bodies. When they were down to just their pants they stood there, each one touching every inch of bare skin exposed to them. Kissing. Kissing.

After some indeterminable amount of time, John gently guided Sherlock to lay on the bed. Sherlock complied, scooting to the middle before settling on his back. John crawled on after him and began divesting Sherlock of his pants. Sherlock was still stiff with desire. John had seen his erection before, held it in his hands, but had not yet admired it for the spectacular specimen it was. Long and sleek, like the man it was attached to, but thick with desire, soft to the touch with an unyielding firmness. John’s mouth watered.

Gently, he wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s prick. Then lowered his head down and placed a soft kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. He gently nuzzled his nose in the soft belly hair that crowned his impressive erection, the tip of which briefly grazing John’s chin. He continued peppering kisses all along Sherlock’s hip, belly and thighs.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was hushed and desperate.

John wrapped his lips around the tip of Sherlock’s cock and slowly took as much of it into his mouth as possible. Sherlock went slack underneath him. As John bobbed up and down, stroking his hands along the thick shaft in tandem.

It lasted a lifetime. Sherlock was lost in the exquisite pleasure and comfort that was John Watson’s mouth. Sherlock was a decadent dessert, one that John Watson was content to savor as long as he could, tasting every inch of skin that he could lay tongue and lips on. Sherlock serenaded him with the deep moans and high hitching breaths that escaped his mouth while John feasted.

But it was over way too soon. Sweet sounds turned into desperate gasps that crescendoed to a powerful shout of pleasure. Sherlock’s body nearly snapped his body in two with the full force of his orgasm. John stroked him through it, lulling him down from his climax.

In short order, before Sherlock had time to recuperate all his faculties, John retreated to the bathroom returning with a warm washcloth. He quickly wiped up the mess on both Sherlock and himself, then tentatively lay next to Sherlock on the bed, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Sherlock reciprocated by wrapping both arms around John, pulling him close and placing a kiss to the top of his head.

“That was…” Sherlock began, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Extraordinary?” John suggested.

John could feel the smirk that crossed Sherlock’s face.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Extraordinary.”

Sherlock grabbed at the duvet and covered both of them. Slowly, contentedly, they both fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

There was something heavy weighing on Sherlock’s chest. He felt an oppressive warmth spread through his body. But there was also a sense of calm. In fact he couldn’t remember a time he had felt more at ease in his own body. Slowly he blinked his eyes open.

It didn’t take him long to identify the source of the heavy heat. Laying limp but solid on his chest was his army doctor roommate. Lover? Boyfriend? Sherlock, didn’t waste much time thinking about labels. They didn’t talk about what they were to each other. It didn’t need to be spoken. They could be whatever they wanted and it needed no justification, no name.

As quickly as he pushed aside the thought of labels the memory of the previous night invaded his awakening mind. Once he had solved the mystery of the diamonds in the bags and presented his brilliant findings to the police it had hit him all at once how much he missed John. He had been completely absorbed in the case, a solid eight on his scale, and hadn’t thought once to call or text the other man. Now all he wanted was to see John’s radiant face, hear his voice, kiss his lips.

Sherlock had always preferred having John, his conductor of light, along with him on cases since their very first case together. But, he was also used to going it alone when he had to. John, of course had his own job to attend to.

Things were different now, though, he had to admit, because when this case had come to a close the days away from his partner— _yeah that worked_ , Sherlock thought as he rolled the word around in his mind—came crashing down upon him, the weight of how much he missed John stabbing him in the gut. He missed eating breakfast with John. He missed telling him all the little deductions from his day that no one, but John would find interesting and brilliant. He missed kissing him good night. He missed John laying his head in Sherlock’s lap while he read. He missed the orgasms, the feel of John’s strong hands on him.

At this realization, Sherlock was determined to get home as soon as humanly possible. He barely bothered to grab his luggage, completely neglected to actually check out of his hotel, and definitely didn’t stick around to give any more statements to the police. They had what they needed. He dashed to make the soonest train back to London.

When he saw John standing in the kitchen it was like being able to breathe again, as if he had been wearing a mask this whole time that only allowed him to draw in oppressively warm, shallow breaths. Then the mere sight of this ordinary man in his plain denim trousers and oversized jumper, his bare feet against the dirty kitchen floor making tea had been the hand that ripped the mask from his face and Sherlock drew in the freshest, fullest breath of his life. It was renewal. It was invigoration. It was life.

 _This_ , Sherlock thought, _must be what love feels like._

And with all that love and with all that life pulsing through him they had fallen into bed. They had taken each other into their mouths and it had been glorious. The heavy weight of John on his tongue. The soft firm heat of John’s mouth. Sherlock could feel his erection growing, pressing up against the thigh John had draped over his body.

Sherlock slowly ran his fingers through John’s hair. Down his back. Up his arm. He wanted to be closer to him, as close as possible, which he thought was odd given their current position. But he couldn’t help it. Within moments John began to stir. Sherlock felt his erection rub harder against John’s thigh as the other man snuggling closer to his body. John peppered light kisses onto Sherlock’s chest as he let out soft contented moans.

Suddenly, Sherlock was distracted from the throbbing of his own erection when he felt an insistent push against his hip. John was slowly grinding his own impressive erection against Sherlock.

Sherlock’s mouth watered and without a second thought he rolled on top of John, slid down his body and swallowed him down. John gasped and grabbed at Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock moaned around John’s erection, pulling up with as much suction as he could create.

John’s body moved with Sherlock’s mouth. The two men danced, wrapped in each other, taking all the pleasure they could from this moment.

Eventually, when John spilled into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock rubbed off on the slickness of John’s groin, cumming all over his stomach. The two shared a sweet kiss before extracting themselves from the bed and getting on with their day.

Life continued on much as it had before. John went to work. Sherlock met with clients and bothered Lestrade when none were interesting enough to spend his time on. In the evenings they would chat about their days, though Sherlock would scoff at the implication that he “chatted.” Sometimes they played board games or watched movies. More often than not Sherlock would work on some case or another and John would work on his blog.

If Sherlock ever had to be out of town without John he was sure to keep in contact. If he needed help he would call John. Perhaps John would make a comment or ask a question that prompted him down another line of thinking, but more than anything John provided a sense of calm to Sherlock’s hurried mind. So John would just sit on the other end of the line and listen while Sherlock thought out loud.

Sometimes, if Sherlock had a break in the case he would send the random, _I miss you_ text.

Other times, Sherlock would hear his phone ping and it was a different sort of _I miss you_ text from John. Those texts made him blush. It was the only time they were even remotely intimate outside of the flat.

Intimacy within the flat was at an all-time high, however. More nights ended with the two in Sherlock’s bed. They learned more and more about each other’s bodies. More and more about each other’s desires. Sherlock learned that John enjoyed rough, sloppy blowjobs. He loved it when Sherlock made a mess, drooling all down his shaft, dripping saliva onto his balls. He loved it when Sherlock took him as deep as he could, loved the sounds it made when his cock hit the back of Sherlock’s throat. John loved to watch, too. Loved to see Sherlock’s wrecked face after as he slowly smeared his cum across Sherlock’s lips and cheeks with the tip of his prick.

“Gorgeous,” he would say. And Sherlock loved it.

John learned pretty quickly how much Sherlock enjoyed a finger or two in the bum while being sucked. Sherlock loved the feeling of being stretched, loved the brush of John’s fingers against his prostate. When he came with John deep inside him, swallowing him down to the root, it was transcendent. His mind shut off and all he could feel was pleasure and relief and John.

On this particular night they were engaged in just such an act. Sherlock was on his back, writhing against the bed, John was two fingers deep inside him rubbing teasingly against his prostate.

“More!” Sherlock wailed. John popped off the other man’s cock.

“More what, love? Another finger?” John asked with a wicked press to that spot inside Sherlock.

“Yes! Stretch me. I want to feel full.”

With a low growl, that let Sherlock know his request pleased his partner, John reached for the lube and slicked up a third finger. Slowly he pressed it in with the other two, all the while licking and placing sucking kisses up the side of Sherlock’s cock.

The stretch felt amazing. Sherlock shivered and moaned. His legs squirmed and hips writhed.

“Yes! Yes! John. Please. Yes!” Sherlock babbled incoherently.

It wasn’t enough. It was too much. He felt his orgasm approaching, but it seemed so far out of reach. John pistoned his fingers in and out of Sherlock’s body, now sucking his cock with dogged determination.

Sherlock growled in frustration and pleasure. He needed more and now. Reaching down he pushed John’s mouth off of his cock and grabbed his arm, stopping his movements. Sherlock paid no attention to the confused look on John’s face as he bodily shoved him up the bed and onto his back.

John’s confusion seemed to deepen as Sherlock swung a leg over his hip, straddling him.

“What—” John’s question was cut short when Sherlock grabbed his cock and lined it up with his stretched, dripping hole.

“Yes!” John shouted in response to the unasked question hanging between them.

“Yes!” He repeated.

Slowly, Sherlock sank down onto John’s thick, stiff prick. That was it. That was exactly what Sherlock needed. He felt full, content, brimming with pleasure. It was the closest he had ever been to John Watson. John was inside him. His eyes closed and his mouth fell open when the soft cheeks of his bum settled fully into John’s lap.

John grabbed onto Sherlock’s hips, steadying him.

“Oh my god.” John whispered.

Sherlock rocked his hips gently. John gripped tighter into his flesh. Sherlock moved again. And again.

Slowly he built up a steady rhythm. He could feel the head of John’s prick brushing against his prostate sporadically. Each time it sent an electric pulse of lust through his body. When he was finally able to open his eyes again he saw John looking up at him with an almost unreadable mixture of emotion on his face.

Reverence was the only way Sherlock could describe it.

“God that’s lovely,” John huffed out. “You are amazing. You _feel_ amazing.”

The weight of what he was doing, what he had just done, hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks.

“John,” he gasped, “You’re inside me. I can feel you inside me.” Sherlock sounded surprised, even though he knew it had been him who initiated their current activity. He continued to rock slowly back and forth.

“Yes I am you beautiful man and you feel so fucking good.” John gave an experimental tug on Sherlock’s hips, thrusting him forward.

“Yes, John. Yes!”

That was all the encouragement he needed. John planted his feet onto the bed and began thrusting his hips, pushing and pulling Sherlock back and forth with his hands. Sherlock merely held on for the ride. The new angle, the harder thrusts meant that John was hitting Sherlock’s prostate with nearly every push. His orgasm was building fast. Sherlock grabbed at his own cock and began stroking quickly.

“Yes, touch yourself. That’s it.” John encouraged. “You look so goddamn gorgeous ridding my cock like that. I want to fuck you until you cum all over me. Can you do that Sherlock? Will you cum all over my chest?”

Sherlock could barely think. He only barely managed to gasp out, “Yes! YES!” in response before he was cumming.

John continued to fuck him as his orgasm crested, hot ropes of cum splashing across his chest. Then John bounced him once, twice more on his cock before slamming into him and cumming himself.

Sherlock went limp, collapsing onto John, who gathered him up in his arms. John peppered kisses around the top of Sherlock’s head.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Sherlock admitted sheepishly into John’s chest.

“Whatever it was, it was amazing,” John tilted Sherlock’s face up to kiss his lips. Sherlock hummed with contentment.

“I love you Sherlock Holmes.”

“I love you John Watson.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Making love to Sherlock Holmes was transcendent.

They lay in bed for some time after, just holding each other, caressing, kissing. Eventually, though, the day had to get going. John made breakfast while Sherlock showered. They went on as usual. John wasn’t due at the clinic that day so he spent his time cleaning, writing his blog, and running errands.

Sherlock had been working on some pet project for The Art of Deduction. John didn’t really know what it was about, but it kept the detective occupied well into the evening. When bedtime rolled around Sherlock was still deeply enthralled in his work.

John had to work the next day and needed to be in bed at a reasonable hour. This moment, right before bed, had become a bit awkward for John recently. More and more evenings, as of late, ended with John and Sherlock in some state of physical intimacy that ended with the two of them in Sherlock’s bed. In fact, John had spent more nights in the past few months sleeping with the other man in his bed.

On the few nights that one or both of them were too busy, or frankly just not in the mood, for a good romp in the sack, John would sleep in his own room. He despised it. Sure his bed was comfortable enough, but it seemed colder and lonelier than sharing a bed with Sherlock.

Dressed in his sweats and a t-shirt, John padded toward the other man sitting at his desk. He tilted Sherlock’s chin up, as the detective seemed intent on keeping eye contact with his computer screen. They kissed briefly, but deeply.

“Still have some work to do?” John asked.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed in confirmation.

“Well, I have work in the morning, so I’m off to bed.” John laid one more quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

“Goodnight, love.”

John turned to leave. He paused before going through the door and up the stairs, looking longingly through the kitchen and to the hallway that led to the room he wanted to sleep in. John felt his stomach turn a little, that twisting feeling that came when you wanted something so bad, but knew you couldn’t have it. He bowed his head and pursed his lips, resigned.

“I’ll be in shortly,” he suddenly heard Sherlock saying, “So don’t go stealing all the covers. You are quite the blanket hog.”

John knew that Sherlock couldn’t see his face, but he tried the hide the elation he felt as it burst from his chest and settled in an aching smile on his face.

“I’ll try my best,” he said, without turning around, “But I take no responsibility for my actions while I’m asleep. So you better get your arse to bed soon.”

With that John headed off to their room and snuggled into bed. About 30 minutes later Sherlock slipped under the covers, wrapping an arm around John’s waste and the two fell asleep.

That was it. Without ever talking about it, the two had become lovers and partners in life. There was no big announcement. They just continued living their lives the way they always had in public, allowing people to think whatever they wanted. Neither assumptions that they were lovers, which there had been since the moment John moved in with Sherlock all those years ago, nor assumptions that they were just friends and flatmates bothered either of them.

John was secure in his feelings for Sherlock and for the feelings that Sherlock had for him. There was no jealousy or overwhelming need to impress the other. It was the best relationship John had ever been in. They had always been friends and companions, but the romantic element of their relationship had strengthened these bonds. Before they were content keeping the other safe and enjoying their company, now they found joy in bringing each other happiness and enjoyment. They thrived off the delight and pleasure of the other.

Right now, John was thoroughly thriving off of the feeling of Sherlock’s tongue up his ass.

“Fuck, Sherlock. You feel so fucking good. Yeeeessss, lick me open.”

It was a lazy Sunday morning. They had woken to the muted light of the sun shining through the curtains. What had begun with John’s wondering hands over Sherlock’s naked body had turned into John bent over with his hips in the air, face pressed into the bed while Sherlock feasted.

Sherlock hummed enthusiastically against John’s quivering flesh, hands on either cheek of his luscious arse, spreading the other man open. Pulling back suddenly, Sherlock landed a quick slap to the fleshy mound of John’s backside.

“You are a dirty little bird aren’t you?” Sherlock’s voice was thick with intention. John whined at the stinging sensation. Slowly, Sherlock inserted two fingers into John’s slick eager hole.

“You want to be fucked so bad, don’t you?”

John’s mouth was hanging open as he panted against the duvet.

“Yes,” he huffed out barely above a whisper.

Sherlock slapped John’s other ass cheek and gave a few quick thrusts of his fingers before adding a third.

“What was that?”

“Yes!” John shouted this time. “Yes, I want you to fuck me. I need your cock Sherlock. Please. You feel so good. I need—I need—”

In what seemed like an instant, Sherlock had the lube and was dripping it all over John’s hole and his fingers.

“Please, Sherlock. Please.” John begged as his lover carefully prepped and stretched him open.

When he felt John was ready, Sherlock slowly rubbed his prick up and down John’s slick crack.

“Is that what you need Doctor Watson? Do you need this thick prick?”

Before John could even find the words to answer, Sherlock was pressing into him. The two men lost themselves. Sherlock pushing frantically in and out of John’s body. John moaning and stroking his own cock, screaming “Yes, Sherlock, harder!” every time the man hit his prostate.  

Then suddenly, “I’m cumming! Oh god Sherlock I’m cumming!”

John spilled across the sheets while Sherlock spilled into him, the contraction of John’s muscles sending him over the edge.

Sherlock collapsed on the bed next to John.

“I’m shaking,” he said, his deep baritone voice delicate and trembling.

John rolled over and kissed him gently.

“That was amazing. I love you so much.”

Sherlock hummed contentedly.

“I’d love you even more than I do now if you made coffee,” Sherlock prodded.

John chuckled at his lover before patting him playfully on the bum, slipping into a dressing gown and heading for the kitchen. He shuffled down the hall, stretching indulgent aches from his muscles and yawning. When he entered the kitchen things seemed a bit off. He didn’t take much notice, just a little niggling feeling at the back of his eyes.

He turned on the coffee pot and grabbed two mugs from the cupboard. Then he went to the fridge to grab the milk. He turned to face the rest of the kitchen as he closed the fridge door and nearly dropped milk in shock.

Sitting at the table in the middle of the room, looking as stuffy and put out as ever, was Mycroft.

“Bloody fucking hell!” John shouted trying to swallow his heart back into his chest from where it had leapt into his throat.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Mycroft simply ignored the question.

“Good morning Doctor Watson. I trust you…slept well.”

That is when realization crashed over John.

“How long have you been here?”

Mycroft simply stiffened his posture and looked at John smugly.

“How long have you been here Mycroft?!”

As if summoned by those words, Sherlock appeared next to John clad in silk pants and a t-shirt.

“What do _you_ want,” Sherlock sneered. John turned to Sherlock indignantly.

“Who gives a shite what he wants? He has no business barging in here like this!”

Mycroft stood from the table, looking down briefly at a folder that rested there.

“An assignment,” was all he said before grabbing his umbrella and jacket and heading for the door. Before exiting he paused briefly and turned his head.

“Congratulations.”

And then he was gone.

The assignment ended up taking nearly two weeks to solve. Lestrade and the Met had gotten involved when a civilian was kidnapped. They had tracked the man to an abandoned apartment building. The suspect, like an idiot according to Sherlock, had kidnapped the man to throw investigators off his trail. Make it seem like a crime of passion and not a plan to steal government secrets.

Luckily for the kidnapped man, John and Sherlock barged into the dilapidated apartment moments before the kidnapping turned into murder. A chase ensued, the Met hot on the two men’s heals.

The suspect ran up the stairs to the roof. John and Sherlock were close behind him. When they first burst through the door they didn’t see him. They began searching the roof, carefully looking around the corners of the few utility rooms scattered on the mostly open flat surface.

Sherlock finally spied the man. He was crouched, waiting, and hadn’t noticed Sherlock. Suddenly, in all of their bumbling glory, Lestrade and his group came crashing through the door. The man turned, noticed Sherlock and took off in a panic. Sherlock ran after him. He was running for the edge of the building.

 _Rather die than get caught? Typical henchmen behavior._ Sherlock sneered internally.

Then Sherlock saw John from the corner of his eye, running at the suspect.

 _No._ He thought. _Don’t you dare!_

But it was too late. Sherlock watched as time slowed to a crawl. He saw in painstaking detail how John rushed to tackle the suspect, trying to wrap his arms around the man. He saw the look in the man’s eyes, the determination, the fortitude as he simply plowed through John taking him over the edge of the building with him.

“John!”

In that moment Sherlock lived a lifetime. Stretched out before him was his life without John Watson. He lived that evening, back at the flat, back in their bed, alone. He lived the next morning, waking up in a cold empty room, unable to make breakfast and coffee himself. He was at John’s funeral where he just stood there unable to speak. He grew old and miserable, alone.

More than anything, Sherlock felt the unending emptiness. It wasn’t a hunger or a thirst that could be satiated or quenched. It was a gaping maw that Sherlock knew could never be filled. The panic he felt was infinite. He knew there is no going back. That his life was over.

His legs weighed a thousand kilos each, but he reached the edge of the building in seconds. He doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to see gnarled body of John Watson, bleeding on the asphalt below. He has to look. He needs to know where John Watson is, because wherever he is, Sherlock will follow.

When he reached the edge and looked over he saw a body, twisted, bleeding on the ground below.

“Help!”

The sound pierced Sherlock’s ears as he frantically looked for the source. There he was. John had managed to grab onto an ornate piece of architecture, jutting out from the side of the building. He clung there precariously.

“Sherlock, help!”

Quickly, Sherlock scrambled to reach him. They grabbed for each other desperately. Adrenaline took over the detective and he hauled John bodily back over the edge of the roof, the two of them collapsing on the ground.

Instantly, Sherlock was on him. He wrapped his arms around John, kissing his face, pulling back to gaze at him, reassuring himself this was real, then kissing John again. Hands roamed over the doctor’s body, checking for injuries. Tears spilled from Sherlock’s eyes.

“Are you okay!? Are you okay?! John?” Sherlock kissed him again, before he could respond.

It was clear that Sherlock was panicking. John cupped his face to still him, looking right into his eyes.

“I’m okay Sherlock. You got me. I’m here. I’m okay.”

It took Sherlock a moment to register the words, before he crashed back into John, wrapping him in his arms.

“I thought you were gone. I thought you had died,” he choked out. “I love you John. I love you.”

Sherlock kissed John intently on the lips, rocking them back and forth.

“I love you too Sherlock.” John reassured him.

“Don’t ever leave me like that again.” Sherlock pleaded. “I saw what my life is without you. It’s nothing. You _are_ my life John Watson. I couldn’t live without you.”

John brought a loving hand to Sherlock’s face, brushing the streams of tears from his cheek before kissing him firmly, lovingly on the lips. That kiss was a promise. A promise from John to Sherlock that he would never be alone again.

“You, Sherlock Holmes, are my life. Or rather, my life is yours. You have saved it so many times in so many ways there is no one else it could possibly belong to.”

The pair kissed again. Over and over again. For how long, John couldn’t tell.

Through all of it, though, they had failed to notice the large group of Met agents just standing there gaping at them. When the two finally got to their feet they noticed the confused and somewhat uncomfortable look on Lestrade’s face.

“You okay John?” He asked.

John realized what had just happened, realized what they had all just witnessed. He put an arm firmly around Sherlock’s waste, standing close to his side. Sherlock pulled him nearer with an arm around the shorter man’s back.

“Yeah,” he said, looking up at Sherlock, “I’m okay.”


End file.
